Tonight
by Call Me Babykins
Summary: Tonight Sam and Dean are sleeping in the backseat of the Impala parked on the side of the road, like they have a thousand times, but tonight changes everything. Weecest and pre-weecest.
1. Disclaimer

The following contains material which some may find offensive, including incest and minors participating in consensual sexual acts. Discretion is advised.

Supernatural and its characters belong to Eric Kripke. Cover image is a screen capture from episode 4x13 "After School Special."


	2. Gavilan, New Mexico

They stop right under the sign that says they're thirty miles outside Gavilan, New Mexico. Most nights John would push through to get them to a hotel, but some nights—like tonight—when he's had a little too much to drink and he's been playing the music so loud that the Impala shakes with it for hours and he's swerving over the double yellow, he just pulls off.

John is asleep or passed out within seconds, beer bottle falling to the floor with a muffled thump, clinking against the bottles that already roll in the foot well.

The stillness of the car after hours of thrumming with every beat of every Led Zeppelin song rings.

Dean can tell, just from the pinched look on Sam's face, that Sam's head aches. But Sam doesn't say anything about it.

Sam doesn't say anything at all—not on nights like tonight when they're hungry and cold on the side of a highway, sweaty and bloody from a hunt that happened the night before and sore from sitting in the same position for too long.

Dean knows Sam won't talk. Maybe not at all tonight. Sometimes Sam doesn't say anything for days after nights like tonight, so Dean breaks the silence.

"You tired?"

Sam shrugs. He's looking out the window, up at the winter stars. Dean wonders sometimes what Sam sees when he looks up; Sam does it all the time.

Dean likes tracing patterns in the sky, likes counting and measuring the stars, likes ordering the chaotic heavens, but he knows Sam isn't like that. Sam who can sit there for hours, eyes trained on the same celestial figures, hardly breathing for concentrating so hard, for hours on end. He sees something more there than just stars.

It gets cold fast once the Impala's engine cools. There may not be a cloud in the sky or a trace of snow on the ground, but Dean'd guess it's well below freezing outside.

It's not long before Sam starts to shiver. The kid hit a growth spurt a while back—shot up almost as tall as Dean-but he still hasn't amassed the muscle to go with it.

Dean wants to wrap Sam up, to tuck Sammy into his jacket and curl around him and keep him warm. And he will eventually, but Sam is proud so Dean makes himself wait until Sam's teeth are practically chattering before he reaches for him.

"C'mere, Sammy, we should get some sleep. "

And, on nights like tonight, Sam doesn't argue. Doesn't shove him away or say that they're too old for this. There's something about the ringing silence and the crystalline skies and their stone drunk father draped across the front seat that lets it be okay that, tonight, Dean treats Sam like he's little again, like Sam can't take care of himself.

They're both too tall to stretch out on the bench seat like they used to; it takes some rearranging until their legs are twined together, bent up so just their toes touch the door.

Dean stretches one arm out so they can both use it as a pillow. He pulls Sam close to him, puts Sam's hands on his chest, between them where it'll be warmest. They're cold through the fabric of Dean's t-shirt. He rubs them to warm them up.

Sam's palms are wide and smooth, his fingers are almost impossibly long. Dean works every inch until they're warm against him.

Dean tucks Sam into his jacket. He can't quite zip it around both of them like he used to when Sam was smaller, but he stretches it as far as it'll go. It's not much of a blanket, but it will do.

Dean rests his chin on the top of Sam's head, threads his fingers slowly through Sam's hair. He'd bet his eyeteeth Sam's head is still splitting so he works gently, relieving the pressure.

Tonight Sam cries. He pretends like he's not, but Dean can feel it—every shudder of Sam's ribs, the warm wet of Sam's tears. Dean runs his fingers through Sam's hair over and over again and sings "Hey Jude" under his breath while Sam fists his t-shirt, drawing them even closer together.

When Sam's calmed a little, Dean kisses the top of his head, breathing slowly.

"It's ok, Sammy," he whispers. "It'll be ok."

He leans in to kiss Sam's forehead, let's his lips rest there for a long moment.

Sam falls asleep with his arms wrapped around Dean's torso under his jacket.

It takes Dean a long time to fall asleep, but his arm falls asleep under Sam's head. It gets cold. His hands and the tip of his nose are freezing. He wraps his fingers in the back of Sam's shirt, pulling him closer. Sam shifts in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and nuzzles against Dean's chest.

If Dean tilts his head back he can see the stars. He looks at them, but not for long. There's no reason to, they're just stars.

He presses his cold nose into Sam's hair and lays another kiss to his head.

Tonight he falls asleep like that.


	3. Wilmington, North Carolina

John swore they would get out of Wilmington that night, but they're just shy of the "Come Again" sign when they pull off the road. John also swore his first drink of the day was just after five, but he doesn't know that Dean saw him taking a swig from a brand new fifth of whiskey at 11:30 that morning.

It's better that they pull off; John's in no state to drive, but Dean has to grit his teeth to keep from reminding his dad that he promised they'd put some miles between them and the Dame's Inn.

He can't understand how John can be so unconcerned. Sam gone silent again. He hasn't said a single word for two days, not while he's awake anyway.

Not since the vengeful spirit dragged Sam under the four poster bed by his ankles and did God only knows what to him while John fumbled for his lighter outside in the grave plot behind the Inn.

He hasn't said a single fucking word, not since Dean pulled him out from under the bed. And all he said then was "Dean," more of a sob than a word.

Dean can't understand how John could ever get drunk enough not to notice how jumpy Sam is, how he won't eat, or how he repeats "Help me get back under the bed" every night in his sleep.

But John can't see how bad it is through the whiskey. He's never been able to.

It takes John a long while to settle, tossing and turning and grumbling in his sleep.

Dean waits. He watches the cars pass them until it's too dark to see the drivers' strange looks as they see the muscle car parked right up against the tree line where the snow's turned to mud and rotten leaves.

It's the coldest April Dean can remember—it snowed just a week ago—but maybe that's because last April they were salting and burning bones in the basement of Murder House in LA and the April before that John was shacked up with a professor of Ancient Studies in Prescott, Arizona while the boys slept in the car and stole change out of payphones and a public fountain to pay for food from the Shell station down the street.

Sam doesn't watch the passing cars. When Dean peeks at his brother from the corner of his eye he can't tell if Sam is really looking at anything. He might be examining the piping along the edge of the front seat. Or he might just be spacing out. It's too dark to really tell.

Dean's about to start edging Sam toward sleep—it's cold and there's no way of knowing when John will wake up or the mood he'll be in when he does—when Sam scoots close and lays his head on Dean's shoulder.

"You ok, Sammy?"

Sam nods slowly, cheek catching on the fabric of Dean's jacket. "Tired," he breathes.

Sam's voice cracks from disuse; Dean has to hide a sigh of relief that Sam is speaking again.

"Here, lay down,"

It takes some maneuvering for them to both fit on the seat. Every time Dean blinks Sam seems to have grown another inch. Their legs end up tangled; Sam's breathing echoes through him, their chests are almost touching to keep Dean's back from hanging off the seat.

Sam curls right up against him, wrapping his arms around Dean's chest, under his jacket. Dean can feel how cold Sam's fingers are through his shirt. Dean tugs at the edges of his jacket, covering as much of Sam as he can—it covers less every day.

Dean'd bet that if he opened his eyes he would be able to see his breath, but he doesn't, just presses his lips to the top of Sam's head. He'll stay tucked close to Sam; they'll be warm enough.

Sam shifts slightly, batting irritably at the amulet hanging between them. He scowls—it's a petulant little face, one Sam made all the time during his terrible twos and threes. Dean smiles as he turns the cord around so the sharp, ice-cold little pendant hangs down his back instead.

"Thanks," Sam nuzzles against Dean's chest. His nose is so cold Dean can feel that through his shirt too.

Sam mumbles something against him.

"What, Sammy?"

Sam tilts his head up. "Thanks for pulling me out."

Dean grits his teeth. He's not ready to think about what happened in Wilmington yet. He doesn't want to remember how the vengeful spirit took Sam from right beside him and dragged him away; he's not willing to imagine what would have happened to Sammy if John's lighter hadn't lit or they'd had the wrong bones.

"Dean?"

Dean sniffs. He hadn't realized the sting on his cheeks wasn't just the cold. "Yeah, Sammy?"

"You ok?"

Dean smiles and tugs Sam closer, presses Sam to him to make sure Sam can't see the tears. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

Sam's quiet and Dean's pretty sure Sam doesn't believe him.

"It's ok now, Sam, everything's going to be ok," he murmurs and leans in to press a kiss to Sam's forehead.

Only Sam looks up just then and maybe Dean miscalculated the distance, because his kiss lands on Sam's lips, dry and slightly parted.

Dean's going to pull back, to apologize, but Sam's fingers dig into his back and Sam _kisses_ him.

Not like a peck on the cheek, not like a lingering touch to the top of the head or a temple like Dean's been doing to Sam his whole life. Not like a brother.

And Dean doesn't know why he doesn't pull away or why he doesn't throw Sam off him, but it feels good and Sam's breath is warm and Sam's lips are open just a little and Dean doesn't stop kissing him.

He's not even sure Sam's ever kissed anyone, but Dean touches his tongue to the sharp point of Sam's incisor, tastes the sour candy Sam got from the gas station they stopped at on the edge of town, and sucks in a sharp breath when Sam catches his bottom lip between his teeth.

Sam makes these tiny noises—they all sound like "Dean" and "God" and "Dean"—and Dean breathes in the words that prove Sam's all right, that he didn't lose his little brother on the hunt.

Sam presses up against him, fingers laced in the hair at the base of Dean's scalp, and Dean goes numb.

Sam's hard. Sam grinds against him and Dean can feel Sam's erection pressed against his leg.

Everything comes into too-sharp focus.

Sam's hard against him—mouth against his, chest to chest, hands cupped around Dean's head, erection straining between them.

And John's in the front seat, his nasal snoring proving that he's still blissfully ignorant of what his sons are doing.

And outside cars drive past, the drivers no doubt still giving the parked Impala a once over as they whiz by.

Sam notices that Dean's gone still and whispers, "Dean, what's wrong?" against his mouth and Dean doesn't have an answer.

So he pulls back and licks the taste of sour candy from his lips and tries not to look at Sam's disheveled hair or shining eyes or swollen mouth.

"We should sleep," he says. "It's been a long day."

And Sam shrinks back, away from him, and Dean lets him because how will he ever be able to pull Sam against him again without feeling Sam's cock hard against his thigh?

Sam turns and sleeps facing the seatback, facing away from Dean. He doesn't repeat the spirit's words under his breath, but he trembles and his breathing hitches like he's scared.

Tonight Dean does not sleep. Not even for a moment, afraid he'll lean back into Sam.


	4. Paragonah, Utah

Dean pulls in at a rest stop. They're supposed to meet John in Scipio in a few hours and if they pushed they could make it, but Sam hasn't said a word in almost a week. If they meet up with John, there's no way to gauge when Sam might talk again.

It's not their first time out alone, the Impala eating up miles and miles of blacktop, but it's the first time it's been this quiet. Sam's almost always quiet when it's him and Dean in the backseat, John in the front, driving for days at a time, but it's not like that when they're alone. Alone they stop for junk food and bathroom breaks whenever they feel like it, check out the local tourist traps, and play the highway stations loud with the windows rolled down instead of Dad's endless supply of mullet rock. Sometimes they even sing along.

But today something's eating at Sam. Something more than the research they finished up which revealed the haunting they're investigating to be composed of the ghosts of children—some as young as Sam was when Mary died—who died while pioneers were pushing west, toward the Salt Lake Valley. Something more than how they might have to hunt down and burn as many as twenty sets of tiny bones to stop the swarm of little ghosts that have been suffocating young mothers in search of the connection they lost in life. Something more than Sam's argument with John over the phone before they left Dixie University in Saint George, which Dean only caught bits and pieces of.

And, whatever that something is, once they're back with John, there's no way Sam will talk about it.

So Dean uses the rest stop bathroom, grabs a root beer from the machine, and heads back to the car, rubbing his eyes exaggeratedly. "Christ, I'm exhausted."

Sam raises an eyebrow. Usually he'd tell Dean to suck it up, that they'd pass a hotel soon. On a good day he'd offer to drive, but Sam doesn't say anything. Hasn't said anything for too long.

Sam probably sees straight through Dean, he's good at that, but he doesn't protest when Dean announces he's going to take a nap in the backseat.

So Dean settles down, folds his forearm over his eyes, but he doesn't sleep. He can see the back of Sam's head. Sam's not even pretending to sleep. He's not even moving.

His hair is getting so long, lit with the harsh, late afternoon Utah sunlight streaming in the windows.

After a few minutes it's stifling inside the Impala, but Sam still hasn't moved, hasn't taken off his over shirt, hasn't stolen a sip from the icy soda Dean purposefully left in the front seat.

Dean shifts restlessly. He's sweated through the back of his shirts already and the leather sticks and squeaks when he moves.

He sees Sam glance over his shoulder and Dean freezes, trying to slow his breathing to make it sound like he's out.

"I know why you're doing this, Dean," Sam's voice is quiet and disturbingly even. "But I'm fine."

Dean sighs, pushes himself up, away from the heat of the black leather seat. Sam looks straight at him, but his expression is too stoic, too distant, like he's not here at all.

"I'm fine," Sam repeats.

"No, Sam, you're not," Dean bites his lip to keep from snapping too harshly, shoving Sam further away. "This is not how things are when you're fine."

Sam's eyes focus suddenly, his gaze sharp and accusing, and he's looking _right_ at Dean like he can see every bit of him laid out under a microscope. His voice is caustic, biting, "Oh, really?"

"_Yes_, Sam," Dean slides closer, until it's just the back of the seat between them. There's sweat decorating Sam's brow, curling the thin, short hairs by his ears.

"Well then why don't you tell me how things are when I'm fine, Dean, because I'm just really not sure."

"Damn it, Sam,"

"_What_, Dean?"

"I know you aren't ok because-because when you're _you_ . . .When you're on the top of your game, nothing can touch you, nothing can kill that smile—not Dad, not a thousand hunts, not years' worth of ancient history to sift through," Dean sighs, surprised at how much his head and chest hurt. "When you're you, it's me and you against the world."

Dean looks away, unable to admit how bad it hurts when Sam is so distant to his face, swallowing back unexpected tears. "And when you won't so much as look at me, Sammy. . . Much less _speak_ to me, I know something's wrong, ok?"

He chances a glance back at Sam and there are tears running down Sam's face and Dean leans over the seat and kisses him.

Not a quick make-it-better peck, not a drawn out touch just to feel him. Not like a brother. Because Dean's been Sam's brother long enough to know nothing he's ever done before is enough to reach Sam where he is now.

He thinks maybe Sam will punch him out, maybe he'll shove him away and spit on him and call him disgusting. Maybe it'll get rid of some of Sam's tension. Maybe, if Sam splits Dean's lip and blacks his eye, he'll come back to Dean.

But Sam whines into Dean's mouth and latches onto him, fingers like claws in his hair, clutching his shirtfront.

And, _God_, Dean's never tasted anything better than the salt of Sam's tears, his little whimpers of "Dean," the trace of spearmint toothpaste in his mouth proving he hasn't eaten since he brushed his teeth before they checked out of the motel this morning.

They pull away for a minute, still crowded up together, Sam still breathing jagged like he's crying.

Sam murmurs quiet words: "Sorry, so sorry, I tried not to . . . I just, I can't Dean, I can't stop myself. Sorry-"

"The hell are you talking about, Sam?" Dean's a little dazed, intoxicated with the taste of salt and spearmint and Sam.

"This, Dean," Sam's definitely still crying. "I didn't mean, I know I shouldn't, but I can't do this anymore. I tried-I try really hard, but I do it-"

"Do what, Sammy?"

Dean brushes Sam's hair away from his face. It's damp with sweat along his hairline. Sam's eyes are huge and bright and wet as he looks up at Dean.

"I know you don't feel the same—I know it's wrong and how could you?" Sam gives a choked little sob of a laugh. "I'm trying really hard, but when I'm close to you I just want . . . And then everything gets bad and you're the only good thing left, but I can't. So, so I don't-"

"Shh, Sammy," Dean presses his mouth back to Sam's, gentle like when Sam's head aches and Dean tries to kiss it better.

He's not sure if what Sam's saying fills him up, warm and hopeful, or scares the ever-loving shit out of him because he spends every single night trying not to lean back into Sam, afraid that what happened in Wilmington will happen again. That they'll be so tired and scared and alone, with nothing but the warmth of each other, and Sam'll touch him like that again. Or, worse, that he'll touch Sam like that. Like they're not brothers.

He'd thought they were safe. When it got hot and they tracked the ghost children to the Utah desert, all red clay and shrub, Dean'd relaxed, certain that they'd be better, that Sam'd stay ok. But he hasn't been ok since he turned his back to Dean and slept facing away from him months ago, scared to touch him. And they aren't safe, not when they're one without the other.

So Dean pulls at Sam and he scrambles over the back of the front seat. Dean slides out of his plaid, tugging Sam's off too, and lies down beneath Sam.

He tastes Sam, touches Sam, heals him. Tries to fill in all Sam's emptiness, to anchor him, tie him closer.

Kisses him better.

Sam humps gentle against him. He's too young, too inexperienced, for this to progress the way things did the last time Dean laid under someone in the back of the Impala. And it's good; that's not what either of them needs. That's not what Dean wants from Sam.

They strip out of their t-shirts eventually, feeling like they're suffocating in green house the backseat has become. They stick to each other and the backseat, needing to lay skin on skin on leather.

Sam gasps into his mouth. Dean thinks that he's probably never done this. Not with the way Sam's eyes get wide and surprised and glazed at how good being tangled in each other feels.

When they come, grinding against each other, they stick into their jeans too. So when there's no one else at the rest stop and the sun has set they strip out of those too and change into sweatpants from their duffels.

They get out and lay on the hood of the car, sweat drying in the desert breeze, looking up. Tonight Dean looks up at the stars and sees lots of things, but Sam only looks at him.


End file.
